Differences
by Neocolai
Summary: Peter is impatient. So is Erik. (12th in the Protection Series)


**Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own Xmen or anything related to the franchise.**

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Charles was never satisfied with family relations. Not even a month after Erik took on the responsibilities of "Dad" (which included training – teaching Peter to fight _slowly_ to prefect his techniques for higher speeds, supervising the other twerps – including Raven's little teleporter (she could deny it as long as she wanted, but any man with half a brain could guess), assisting with homework – Peter's algebra consisted of 1 bunny + 2 bunnies = _"Can we get ice cream after this?"_ , half-listening to billows of words as Peter reiterated the last five minutes of his day, and refereeing a school of impetuous youngsters intent on destroying one another with accidental mishaps (to be honest, he passed this job off to Peter most of the time – a mutant who could direct firepower _before_ it incinerated the nearest student was worth the boxes of chemical-infused cream cakes he occasionally tossed his son's way)), Charles thrust a list into his hand, briefly described the new wing he had planned for the school, and sent him off to the far side of New York with the suggestion to "Take Peter along; it'll be good for him."

Which meant take the car. And a jumpy speedster. For four hours.

 _It's going to be "Play fetch with your son, Erik" next time,_ Erik predicted, gripping the wheel tensely. He nodded in tune with Peter's chatter and calculated how much time it would take to order the lumber, nab whatever else he needed, and be back in the car. As soon as the kid was tucked away in the academy, he was going to find the quietest bar with the strongest brew and Charles could yammer about tomorrow's classes until he exhausted his mind.

"We gonna stop soon? Dad? Dad? Dad? Dad? Hellooo Magnetooo. Knock knock, who's there? _Dad!_ "

Four seconds. That's all he needed to respond if the kid would just give him _time_. Rolling his eyes, Erik intoned, "What is it, Peter?"

"Are we gonna stop soon? Cause Hank packed a sack lunch but I ate it an hour ago, and yours is looking really good right now. Did he pack you cookies, too?"

"Why don't you look for yourself," Erik invited. He could wait until the next stop.

A rumpled paper sack instantaneously hit the back seat as Peter stuffed the last sandwich bite in his mouth, flushing it down with a slurp of soda. A rattle and crunch and the chip bag followed.

"Peter."

Dubiously the speedster looked over, sucking salty crumbs off his fingers.

"Trash. Put it away."

"Oh. Right." Of all occasions for the kid to _slowly_ pick up every discarded item and deliberately stuff it into the sack. How could he even strain that far in his seat belt? Erik had forgotten how limber the younger generations could be.

Sneaky brown eyes looked up for confirmation and Erik nodded. With a snort Peter tossed the bundled paper bag into the back seat and leaned back, stretching his legs across the dashboard. Erik didn't bother correcting his posture. Kid wanted to break his legs in a freak accident….

Then again, with a speedster and a metal controller in the same car, the likelihood of sudden disaster was probably obsolete.

"So… why we taking the car again?" Peter wondered. "I mean, I could be there and back in ten minutes. Or you could fly this thing. Can you fly it? That would be awesome. We could avoid all these sloooow cars on this sloooow highway with so many slooow red lights and – "

"The professor said drive," Erik intercepted, which of course finalized the conversation. He noticed a lack of disgruntled gloom whenever Charles was mentioned. Somehow the telepathic had earned Peter's respect, but of course he never shared his secrets with the boy's _father_.

"I think you'll figure this out on your own," Charles had evaded when asked.

Four hours on the road turned out to be the key to madness, not illumination.

"Dad. Daaaad!"

Erik breathed deeply, focusing on patience. "What is it, Peter?"

"I'm hungry. Can we stop somewhere?"

Fifteen minutes since the sandwich. How on earth did the kid survive Apocalypse?"

"You just had lunch." Twice. "You can wait an hour."

"But I'm hungry. Hank says my metabolism burns everything faster than normal, and no offense, but your sandwich was pathetically low on the calorie count. I could faint and die if I don't eat soon."

Unlikely. Overdramatic was a paltry description for the kid.

"Dad?"

"One hour," Erik repeated. "Consider it training." His mind flitted to the concentration camps, with scant meals spaced twelve hours in between, and tried not to picture his son.

Some circumstances should never be repeated in the lives of children.

Peter flung his head back against the seat and sighed. "Fine. The professor's nicer than you, by the way."

"Sure, he is," Erik agreed. "You should've seen his first recruits." Honestly, those kids wouldn't have lasted a month without a 'gentle push' on Erik's part. Charles was always too soft on the youngsters.

Sighing again, Peter tapped his foot against the dashboard. (Shivered was a more apt description. Erik prided himself in silently ignoring the vibration in the wheel.)

The bleeping of a Gameboy pitched high above normal speed was almost a whine. He could put up with that. (Albeit, his teeth might be permanently damaged from grinding in an hour.)

Another forlorn sigh and Peter tucked the Gameboy into his pocket. He slid down until he was almost lying on the seat, feet tucked up near the ceiling, and switched on his Walkman. Erik had three quiet minutes to wonder how sound cooperated with a faster-than-explosions mutant.

"Has it been an hour?" Peter piped in. "It feels like an hour. Feels like four hours. Can we stop at a gas station? I could just pick up a couple snacks. I'd pay for them, I promise!"

"Peter. It's been five minutes."

Crawling silence followed. Peter stared. Erik focused on the traffic. Slowly the silver mutant pulled down his goggles.

The door flickered and slammed shut, reopening to admit the waft of fast food and the crinkling of empty wrappers.

"Peter!" Erik wrenched the car to the shoulder, narrowly avoiding a logging truck, and slammed on the breaks. Vaguely he was grateful the stupid kid had the nerve to buckle himself in.

Primarily, he was furious.

Yanking out the keys, Erik turned to the stunned mutant. "What did I just tell you?"

"You said we'd be stopping in an hour," Peter exclaimed, flicking ketchup off his hands. The red smear on his face was more terrifying than amusing. It could have been blood. It could have been…

"You left a moving vehicle!" Erik shouted. "I thought Charles picked them young, but that was unbelievable! If another car had been coming –"

"What's the big deal?" Peter exclaimed. "I wasn't going to get hit! You know I'm fast enough!"

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is it?" Crossly Peter folded his arms. "What, you didn't even want me to come? What's the point of this whole thing, anyways? I hate car rides."

"Then why don't you run home," Erik retaliated, jamming the key into the ignition. Fantastic. Some 'family bonding moment' that Charles had thrown together. The kid didn't even want to be there.

A car whooshed past and he almost missed the mumbled reply.

"I thought maybe you wanted to spend some time with me..."

His chest gripped and he cursed softly.

Glancing over, Erik's gaze softened. A half-eaten hamburger lay abandoned on the floor. The kid looked sick from what little he'd eaten. Dishonorable plunder was always the hardest to stomach.

Peter was right, though. He was fast enough. Heck, he probably could have made the supply run for Charles and been there and back ten times in as many minutes.

He just wanted to spend some time with his dad.

 _Erik, you never learn,_ Magneto chided himself.

Thank heavens he had been marginally prepared. He'd planned to indulge the kid's sweet tooth afterwards – a sort of reward for enduring the long ride – but some things were better meted out on impulse.

Slowly Erik turned on the car, then reached across and flicked open the glove compartment, tossing a box of twinkies into the boy's lap. Peter's head lanced up, and Erik masked a cringe at the disillusion lingering in dark eyes.

"What….?"

"Next time, at least wait till we get to a traffic light," Erik said softly.

A tentative smile grew brighter, before Peter enthusiastically launched into the sugary snacks.

He was even forgiving enough to share a couple hamburgers with his dad.


End file.
